Desk Issues
by pancakesareking
Summary: Slash[AngelxSpike] Wilted Roses, here is the story you requested. Angel, Spike, and a new desk, post apocalypse, living together.


**Title: **Desk Issues

**Pairing:** Angel/Spike

**Summary: **Angel, Spike, and a new desk, post apocalypse, living together.

**Disclaimer:** Joss Whedon had it first, kiddies. Sorry.

**Author's Notes:** This is one of those really hard fandoms where I lose control of the characterization quite easily. Plus, this story is written as a favor because I can't say no to someone who blatantly flatters me as much as Wilted Roses did. So, bully for you if you don't like it, fabulous if you do.

**Dedication:** Wilted Roses, of course. You damn well better enjoy this. I apologize for any and all typos. This isn't beta-ed, so any problems can be blamed on me.

-**Desk Issues**-

Apocalypses can be for the best, sometimes.

No, really.

When everything in the world is shit, there's someone out there wishing a hoard of monsters would burst into L.A. and just go ahead and finish. Them. Off.

Angel hates those people. Really, really, hates them.

A lot.

Because now Wesley is dead, and Charles is some sort of pseudo-mute who makes bad jokes in sign language, and Spike does this little breathy sigh thing that really grates on Angel's nerve after a few hours. Of course, any strict command of, "stop that" earns an airy, "stop what, you loon?"

In all honesty, he could use a vacation from the hero business.

The most horrible part, perhaps, is the fact Angel is in his office, but not his _real _office, because that's a pile of cinder blocks now. Spike, darling bloke that he was, had kindly offered the guest room of his apartment to Angel.

It came with a futon, a mini fridge, and highly inflated monthly rent.

Because blah, blah, blah, and Spike no longer does the charity thing.

He's sitting at his desk, but it doesn't feel like it used to, because it's a new desk, with a new pen holder, and a new stack of paper in each corner, just waiting to be organized. Only all of the papers are blank. Just an another complication in the life of Angel.

So yeah, sometimes apocalypses were for the best, provided one was used to brooding for prolonged periods of time in any given environment.

"Ha."

It's the thirty-fourth sigh in ten minutes, and Angel doesn't have a calculator or a Charles Gunn around to compute the average amount of sighs per minute. But it's bordering on one-hundred and really fucking annoying per hour.

Angel peers over his desk, unsurprised at finding Spike curled on his side on the carpet, humming. Blue eyes, entirely too clear, meet his, and Spike sits up.

Then he heaves a sigh.

Ready, aim, fire.

The paperweight hits Spike in the shoulder, and he glares.

"Bugger off."

"Stop sighing in my office."

"Yeah? Stop brooding in my apartment."

"I'm not brooding."

Spike scoffs, and Angel's just relieved it's not a sigh. "Sorry, the frown threw me off."

Angel almost smiles, until he remembers he really has dedicated his time in Spike's apartment to brooding. His lips twitch, and tumble into a frown. "Let's go on a vacation."

"Not Rome," Spike says quickly, as if he's been expecting this. "Anywhere but Rome. Or Paris, or England, or Italy, or Ireland." He grunts, then mutters, "God forbid we unleash you in Ireland."

He conjures mental images; Buffy, Eiffel tower, pubs, kilts. God awful kilts. Spike is watching him, so Angel averts his eyes and asks, "How about Russia?"

"Right." Spike blinks, and grins, before picking himself up. It seems like a total waste to Angel, because seconds later the blond is draped across his desk bonelessly, his body scattering the blank papers all over the floor. Angel doesn't even mind, because looking at a spread out Spike is much more interesting than the blank papers, and for the first time he thinks maybe the rent isn't so expensive, after all.

There's an awkward silence for a moment, until Angel realizes it's his turn to talk. "Uh, it's supposed to be nice this time of year."

Spike scoffs, licks his lips, and scoffs again. "Nice and cold. And snowy."

"I'll buy you a fur coat."

More papers fly off of the desk, and Angel's eyes meet Spike's. Spike's mouth is twisted in some semblance of a smirk. "Okay," he murmurs, before curling up once more and heaving a sigh.

Damn it all.

And Angel is right back where he began. He's starting to think he never went anywhere at all. "Is this one of those vacations we plan but never actually go on?"

"Cor, I hope so." Spike turns over, and wriggles his hips. "I hate Russia. Too "

Angel blinks, then shoves Spike softly. Spike moves over, and Angel takes the space offered. He moves gracelessly from his chair to the desk, and lies on his back beside the other vampire. There's a second of perfect silence before Spike heaves another sigh, and his breath washes against Angel's cheeks. A really small ice-cold breeze, as Angel likes to think of it.

Damn breathy sighs.

Beneath the two of them, the desk is groaning and creaking in protest to their combined weight. For such a semi-expensive desk, it seems like it should be more sturdy. But then, Angel's no expert on desks. He's an expert at saving lives. And killing people, although that's a thing of the past.

And now he can honestly say he's slain the dragon, and not mean it in a metaphorical sense.

But he doesn't have much on desks, though and decides they should have gotten a more expensive one.

"What's wrong with Russia?"

"For the well-being of the desk, I'm not gonna answer that."

Angel turns his head, wincing at the long groan. "What about..."

"Look, mate, I'm perfectly happy here."

There's a terribly long, awkward silence, and not even the desk makes a noise. Angel lies perfectly still, until his fingers rebel, and begin tapping a beat on the wooden panel of the desk. There's the tiniest squeak while Spike adjusts himself, turning over to face the opposite wall. Then he clears his throat, and very slowly adds, "What with...this new desk and all."

"It is a pretty nice desk."

Spike shimmies back a few inches, until his back is flush against Angel's side. "Yeah. Real comfy-like." He sighs.

"Spike." It's a one-word explanation, or at least it's supposed to be, but it comes out sounding more like an invitation.

"Gonna say something sappy and romantic now, or are you going to brood out loud?"

He fiddles absentmindedly with the hem of Spike's coat, and lets his fingers graze Spike's leg. Yeah, he's about to say something sappy and romantic, all right. "I think, if I had a heart, you would make it beat faster."

Then Spike is laughing, and rolling on top of him. It doesn't work quite as planned; they end up in a heap of limbs on the floor, barely missing the chair. Angel doesn't know if he can deal with a concussion right now.

Still, Spike is on top of him, and grins wildly. "I bet you say that to all the dead blokes," he coos.

"Spike—" He doesn't get to finish, because Spike is kissing him, and it's cold, but really hot, so Angel groans and kisses back. Spike raises a hand to hold his cheek, while the other tangles itself in Angel's hair, which is thankfully sans gel today.

What a mood spoiler that would have been.

There's a tongue tracing his lower lip, and Angel opens his mouth politely. What he expected to be a fun game of tonsil hockey turned out to be Spike's teeth, gentle on his lower lip, tugging just enough to hurt and still feel really fucking _good_. He returns the favor by raking his fingernails down Spike's back, under his coat, and the cottony fabric of his shirt bunches under his fingers and Spike shudders against him.

Sadist, meet masochist, Angel thinks, and writes it off as one of those rare clever thinks he come up with at the worst possible times.

With an ethereal grace, Spike discards his jacket, returning his hands to their previous positions, only one has changed course, and is unbuttoning Angel's pants. His fingers work quickly, momentarily fumbling with the zipper. Angel would like to think Spike's hands are warm, but there's just cold, and he pulls back for a minute when those pale fingers skim over his hip.

"So, we're not going to Rome?"

"Ugh." Spike's head drops onto Angel's chest, and this time it doesn't bother Angel when he utters one of those breathy sighs.

"I just—"

"No."

"Spike—"

"The mood, Angel. You killed it. There it was, skipping through a field of poppies, and you had to go and trample it."

"I didn't _trample_ it."

Spike rubs against him, and makes a moaning purr of a sound. "You showed it no mercy. Wait to go. My hero. Slays dragons, and kills the mood."

"I was thinking." About your hand in my pants, he doesn't say. "I think the sex would be better on a desk."

"Right." Spike coughs. "Because my performance is better when it's not on the floor?"

"We've never had sex on the floor."

"We've never had sex period. Well, except that one—"

"That doesn't count," Angel says quickly.

Spike stares for a minute. The room was colder than before, and notably more messy. Horribly messy. Blue eyes, and apocalypses, and desks. New desks.

Maybe a concussion would have been a good thing, at that point.

Angel attempts a smile, before nudging Spike. The two of them stand up together, and Spike gives another go at the desk thing. He launches himself at Angel, and he's a lot more aerodynamic when he's not wearing the coat. Angels stumbles backwards, and lets himself fall onto the desk.

The pants, sadly never re-buttoned, we easy to pull off, and hit the wall with a smack. A near-white eyebrow rose in apparent interest.

"It's a Saturday. No one wears underwear on a Saturday."

Spike hums in agreement, and gets rid of his own clothes. "Well, in my apartment, no one wears clothes on Sunday. Sunday is official nude day," he manages to say, before he's diving in for another kiss.

It's all very messy, and when it's over Angel wonders why he and Spike had never done that before. Except that one time...which doesn't count, he tells himself, and sighs contentedly. Spike is lax on top of him, sweaty and warm from a helluva lot of friction.

"Now," Spike says slowly, pausing to trace a tongue around Angel's nipple. "We should have sex on the floor. You know. For comparison purposes."

Angel doesn't think, _can't _think, but the idea of more sex is appealing, so he nods tiredly.

"Oh, come on! Don't tell me you're tired! We just had really exciting sex, and you're tired?"

"Just resting my eyes," Angel murmurs, and it's true.

"You're not brooding?"

There's a sort of trepidation lurking in his voice, and when Angel looks up he can see it in Spike's eyes. "I don't like to brood in the...nakedness."

"Ah." One last breathy sigh, which Angel makes sure of, because he now has ways of keeping Spike's mouth busy.

"I'm sticky."

"You are. Are you always this stupid after a good fuck, or am I a special case?"

"It's pretty normal. Shower?"

"Then the floor sex?"

Angel tries the smiling thing one more time, and it feels a little more relaxed. "Then the floor sex."

Spike isn't so lax anymore. In fact, he's bouncing up, enthusiastic and practically glowing. "Fantastic!" He saunters to the door, and before he leaves the room, turns around. "Don't you just love post apocalyptic sex?"

"Mm." Angel really, really does, and really, really can't wait until Sunday.

He gets up, follows Spike, whose pale white ass is like a beacon down the hall, and thinks maybe apocalypses are for the best, sometimes.

And maybe he's going to cut back on the brooding.

But he's going to take a shower first, and enjoy some good old fashioned floor sex.

Yeah.

-The End-

Okay, Wilted Roses, here's your story. I'll be really fucking angry if you don't bother reading it. So read it, and tell me what you think.

Anywho, be pleased, because this was really damn hard to write. And, PS, sorry for the lack of sex. Present tense sex is harder than it would seem, and I usually suck at it anyway.

Later.


End file.
